There’s this pier near the house where
I walk after the last dish is washed.
Past each unknown neighbor,
shades drawn day and night,
one old Italian guy on the stoop with a cigar,
head nod exchanged,
past the recycling bins out regardless
of the day of the week,
flashed glimpse of a skunk tucking
under the lattice work of the porch
on that big Victorian house perpetually
Round the corner at the bottom of the hill,
cross under the streetlight
and onto the wooden planking,
enter a thousand moons ago when
the ocean smelled differently and
the flowers came in hues
I can’t find anymore,
watch the roil, hear the crash
sound like a call and response echo
to a childhood that is long gone and
murky below the whitecaps,
before heading home to the constant.
Sometimes you have to drink
the water where you came from.
Heather Sullivan has appeared and has work forthcoming in Corium Magazine, Busted Dharma and Chiron Review. She lives with her family, and a small herd of cats, in Revere, MA. She maintains a blog at www.ladyjaneadventures.blogspot.com.